“SHE is coming, Mr. Verney,” said Miss Sheckleton, speaking low and quietly; but her voice sounded a little strangely, and I think the good-natured spinster was agitated.

Cleve, walking by her side, made no answer. He saw Margaret approach, and while she was yet a good way off, suddenly stop. She had not seen them there before. There seemed no indecision. It was simply that she was startled, and stood still.

“Pray, Miss Sheckleton, do you go on alone. Entreat her not to refuse me a few minutes,” said he.

“I will — she shall — I will, indeed, Mr. Verney,” said Miss Sheckleton, very much fidgetted. “But you had better remain where we were, just now; I will return to you, and — there are some French servants at the house — will you think me very strange — unkind, I am sure, you will not— if I say it is only common prudence that you should not be seen at the house? You understand why I say so.”

“Certainly. I shall do whatever you think best,” he answered. They had arrested their walk, as Margaret had done, during this little parley. Perhaps she was uncertain whether her approach had been observed. The sun had gone down by this time, and the twilight had begun to make distant objects a little indistinct.

But there was no time for manoeuvring here, for Miss Fanshawe resumed her walk, and her cousin, Anne Sheckleton, advanced alone to meet her.

“Margaret, dear, a friend has unexpectedly arrived,” began Miss Sheckleton.

“And gone, perhaps,” answered Margaret Fanshawe, in one of her moods. “Better gone — come, darling, let us turn, and go towards home — it is growing so dark.”

And with these words, taking Miss Sheckleton’s hand in hers, she turned towards the house, not choosing to see the friend whom that elderly lady had so eagerly indicated.

Strangely did Cleve Verney feel. That beautiful, cruel girl! — what could she mean? — how could she treat him so? Is there not, in strange countries, where people meet, a kindlier impulse than elsewhere? — and here — could anything be more stony and utterly cruel? The same wonderful Cenci— the same low, sweet voice — the same laugh, even — just for a moment heard — but now — how unspeakably cruel! He could see that Miss Sheckleton was talking earnestly to her, as they walked slowly away. It all seemed like a dream. The formal old wood — the grey chateau in the background, rising, with its round turrets, and conical tops, and steep roofs against the rose-tinted sky of evening; and in the foreground — not two score steps away — those figures — that girl to whom so lately he was so near being all the world — to whom, it now appeared, he was absolutely nothing — oh! that he had never heard, in Shakspeare’s phrase, that mermaid voice!

His pride was wounded. With a yearning that amounted to agony, he watched their receding steps. Follow them he would not. He leaned against the tree by which Miss Sheckleton had left him, and half resolved to quit that melancholy scene of his worst disaster without another look or word — with only the regrets of all a life.

When Miss Sheckleton had reached Margaret, before the young lady spoke, she saw, by her unusual paleness and by something at once of pain and anger in her face, that she had seen Cleve Verney.

“Well, Margaret, if you will go, you will; but, before you make it irreparable, you must, at least, think.”

“Think of what?” said Margaret, a little disdainfully.

“Think that he has come all this way for nothing but the chance of seeing you; of perhaps saying a few words to set himself right.”

“If he wished to speak to me, he might have said so,” she answered. “Not that I see any reason to change my mind on that point, or any good that can come, possibly, or for ever, if he could talk and I listen for so long.”

“Well, but you can’t doubt what he has come for,” said Miss Sheckleton.

“I don’t doubt, because I don’t mean to think about it,” said the young lady, looking fiercely up toward the gilded weather vanes that glimmered on the grey pinnacles of the chateau.

“Yes, but it is not a matter of doubt, or of thinking, but of fact, for he did say so,” pleaded Miss Sheckleton.

“I wish we were in Italy, or some out-of-the-way part of Spain,” said the handsome girl, in the same vein, and walking still onward; “I always said this was too near England, too much in the current.”

“No, dear, it is a quiet place,” said good Anne Sheckleton.

“No, cousin Anne, it is the most unquiet place in all the world,” answered the girl, in a wild, low tone, as she walked on.

“And he wants to speak to you; he entreats a few words, a very few.”

“You know I ought not,” said she.

“I know you ought, my dear; you’ll be sorry for it, all your days, Margaret, if you don’t,” replied Anne Sheckleton.

“Come home, dear, come home, darling,” said the girl, peremptorily, but sadly.

“I say, Margaret, if you let him go without speaking to him, you will regret it all your days.”

“You have no right to talk this way, cousin Anne; I am unhappy enough as it is. Let us go on,” she said.

“If you send him away, as I say, it is all over between you.”

“So it is, it is all over; let the dead rest.”

“The world is wide enough; there are many beautiful creatures there, and he is himself so beautiful, and so clever; be very sure you care nothing for him, before you send him away, for you will never see him again,” said Miss Anne Sheckleton.

“I know — I am sure — I have thought of everything. I have made up my account long ago, for now, and for all my days,” said she.

“So you have,” answered Miss Sheckleton. “But while you have a moment still allowed you, Margaret, review it, I implore of you.”

“Come, darling, come — come — you ought not to have spoken to me; why have you said all this?” said Margaret, sadly and hurriedly.

“Now, Margaret darling, you are going to stay for a moment, and I will call him.”

“No!” said the girl, passionately, “my mind’s made up; not in haste, cousin Anne, but long ago. I’ve looked my last on him.”

“Darling, listen: you know I’ve seen him, he’s looking ill, I think; and I’ve told him that you must speak to him, Margaret; and I tell you you must,” said Miss Sheckleton, blushing in her eagerness.

“No, cousin Anne, let there be an end of this between us; I thought it was over long ago. To him, I will never, never — while life remains — never speak more.”

As she thus spoke, walking more hurriedly toward the house, she heard a voice beside her say —

“Margaret! Margaret, darling— one word!”

And turning suddenly, she saw Cleve Verney before her. Under the thick folds of her chestnut hair, her features were pale as marble, and for a time it seemed to him he saw nothing but her wild, beautiful eyes fixed upon him.

Still as a statue, she stood confronting him. One little foot advanced, and her tiny hand closed, and pressed to her heart in the attitude in which an affrighted nun might hold her crucifix.

“Yes, Margaret,” he said at last, “I was as near going — as you were near leaving me — unheard; but, thank God! that is not to be. No, Margaret darling, you could not. Wild as my words may sound in your............